


all will turn to silver glass

by blackfyre



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:24:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackfyre/pseuds/blackfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elia's tongue has been her only weapon for years, masking herself in sweet talk, cloaking herself in gentle retorts. Now, it will be her only defense. The city will fall but Maegor’s Holdfast  will hold, will last until the commanding nobles reach to negotiate. She will plead for the lives of her children.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all will turn to silver glass

**Author's Note:**

> can be seen as a sequel of sorts to my other Elia fic.

Elia knew the west was marching towards King’s Landing, racing against the rebels. She was numbed, her fingertips tingling and asleep, clumsy and unable to lace her dresses or properly brush her daughter’s hair. Elia did this nonetheless, holding Rhaenys close, keeping Aegon at her breast. Tywin Lannister was marching west, to save them, to defend them, but ultimately to claim power for himself.

She knew the hearts of men, the men hungry for power, the men who knew power. Once men had a taste of power, the slick wet tangy sweet of it, they never could let it go. Tywin would cast Aerys down, rip her son from her arms, crown him, and rule uncontested as Lord Regent, as Lord Hand. Her son was claimed by everyone except his mother.

Claimed by Rhaegar, as the song of ice and fire. Claimed by Aerys, another heir who looked a dragon. Claimed by Rhaella, wary eyes and greedy arms keeping him from her, softly saying _you are still too weak to hold him, my sweet daughter_. Claimed by all of Westeros, as their beloved prince’s son.

A day later, the bells ring, clanging together, as the westerlands’ forces pour into the city, raping and fighting and pillaging and Elia flees to her innermost chambers with her children and trusted maids.

Fear flutters in her chest but she is desperate to calm herself. She despairs that the babe, her sweet babe, will die. The rebels – if they wish to claim the throne completely and utterly – cannot allow a Targaryen prince, the Targaryen heir, live. But Dornish peace depends on his life. Her brothers will rage war if her babe dies. She can barely feel the weight of her child in her arms.

Her tongue has been her only weapon for years, masking herself in sweet talk, cloaking herself in gentle retorts. Now, it will be her only defense. The city will fall but Maegor’s Holdfast will hold, will last until the commanding nobles reach to negotiate. She will plead for the lives of her children.

Elia knows that Rhaenys will be allowed to live – she is a girl and there has been no Queen ruler in her own right for all of the Targaryen dynasty. She will be escorted into the Vale, or perhaps the North. _She is insignificant_ , Elia chants, _she will be spared_.

Her maids, with trembling fingers, dress her in Dornish silks, in orange and red and yellow, a large pin with the Martell sigil – a sun with a spear – at her shoulder. _Let them know whose wrath they will incur if they spill a drop of mine own blood_. If they wished to keep Dorne, if they wished for the war to end with today, her safety and the safety of her children are the cost.

She dismisses her maids to the greeting chamber, settling into the nursery with her children. The room is directly below one of the bedchambers she and Rhaegar used most often when they slept together. A small staircase connected the two rooms and Rhaenys would often jump into their bed in the morning, giggling and laughing and ignorant of her parents’ strained affection for each other.

Rhaenys is a bundle of nerves, chasing her black cat throughout the room. Balerion jumps with a hiss to the window, and drops below. She howls and sobs into Elia’s silks, the tears wetting Elia’s legs, tiny hands clutched in the fabric. She calms her girl the best she can, but the bells still toll, the city screams, and her maids shriek in the outer chamber.

_They cannot have taken the Holdfast so quickly_. She places Aegon in the chair and strides to the door, catching a glimpse of hulking men clad in Lannister colors before she slams the door shut and bars it. _My Kingsguard are gone. My husband took them all to war. Aerys chains the other. I am left. I must protect them._

She collects Aegon in her arms, just as the first blow comes to the door. Rhaenys screams, face streaked with tears, and she bolts up the stairs, crying “Papa, Papa.”

Elia stands. With each blow, the door shudders and gasps. Her heart is in her throat. _I was Princess Elia of the Seven Kingdoms. I was going to be Queen Elia. I must be Princess Elia of Dorne now. I am of House Nymeros Martell. I am the only hope for Dornish peace. I am unbent, I am unbowed, I am unbroken._

The door breaks with the final blow.


End file.
